Lost and Found
by The Mock Turtles
Summary: She's tired of trying and perhaps, he is tired of her.
1. Chapter 1

**WHAT IS LOST  
**

_**Authors notes**__: Oh hi there! Yes, another Dragon Age fan! I don't want to give too much away about the plot, but this takes place before, and after Awakening, so spoilers will arise. You've been warned. Aside from that, I hope you enjoy the story—a little exploration of the hazards of married life, and the temptation riddled between two warring pairs. Without giving too much away, expect a couple of other pairings on this expedition._

_--Dagny. _

_**Warnings**__: none. _

* * *

_**The first time**__ they lost a child, she fought to keep it._

_The second, she barely felt (but she remembers the blood; Wynne muting her wail as she's cradled to her chest.)_

Alistair is asleep behind the desk. The fire smoulders, crackling on charred wood behind him. His hair glows amber in the light. A petty scowl on his face tells her he's dreaming, (lately its politics, mutiny and taxes; less darkspawn, no archdemons) eyes darting behind closed lids. As she maps his face, Dorcas recognises the simmering thrill of attraction gnawing at the base of her gut. It's buried behind the weight of her growing stomach (she touches it, reaffirming that it's still there) and slinks away before it lulls her towards him. Instead, she stands stoic by the doorway, wonders why his face is lines free while she's becoming noticeably older every day. He tells her otherwise. She doesn't believe it. But, with a satisfied sigh she knows he hasn't been sleeping (the skin beneath his eyes are bruised with insomnia.) Zevran says he sulks outside her halls four times a week (used to be daily.)

Her stomach gives an uneasy jolt, and the retired Warden stifles a grunt of discomfort. The vomit piles in her stomach with a familiar wrench (Alistair stirs, from his seat, shoulders heaving) and she scurries from the room.

When he wakes, he catches the rustle of fabric, the clapping of footsteps rising over the haze of sleep. Rubbing his eyes, the biting winter cold hits him first; the heavy tongue, the burp that stinks of liquor (Oghren's, he's sure) comes after. He's fallen asleep again, he notes, this time on a political novella, Eamon lent him on his last visit. A puddle of dribble has blurred the ink. Dully, he arranges himself, pushes letters, messages, requests, scrolls, out from under him. The open door groans, swaying once, twice, on its hinges before stopping. With a frown he clears his throat.

'L-Lelianna?'

There's a pause.

'Yes, your majesty,' comes the cooing tones of the bard. She doesn't enter. Alistair studies her silhouette.

'Was it _her_?'

No response. Rising from the chair, he lets a hand wander under the slip of his robes. He scratches his chest idly, at faded war wounds now white with age. On the bed, the spare blanket lies on a neat pile. Untouched—with a bitter smile, he murmurs to himself—to Lelianna, who is ever vigilant.

'She always used to wrap me up, you know?' He trails away (rubs his mouth with his fingers, stumbles on a hoarse laugh) 'Woman was more terrified of catching a _cold_ than darkspawn. Now—now I'm not sure what's she's afraid of.'

In the silence, he throws a sympathetic glance towards the door.

'You could go back to her. It's not treachery.'

Subtle movement follows. Alistair thinks she's fixing her hair.

'With all due respect, sire,' she begins, 'our commander is in the wrong. I'll stand by you until she has regained some of her former reason.'

He's warmed by the comment, but chills continue to race along his spine. At his leisure, he ambles to the empty bed, rolls under the lavish covers and wonders how they survived their travels under patchy cotton blankets.

'Besides, she has Zevran, and Anders protecting her. She's in good hands.'

_Safe hands_, she means to say—for Lelianna is anything but devoid of worry for her former leader. Alistair attempts to find solace in her words, yet his lips remain ever pursed, his folded arms, stiff with uneasiness. It doesn't last long. Sleep and fatigue wears away at his conscience until his mind goes blank to the crackle of fire.

_The third time they lost a child, she slapped him. _

When their fifth attempt fails, she says she's tired of trying.


	2. Chapter 2

**What We Had  
**

_**Authors notes**__: Wow! Thanks so much for the encouraging PMs and favourite ads. Great so see such positive reviews after only the first chapter. This one is a little longer, and hopefully, sheds some more light on the contrasts of then and now. I wrote half of this in past tense to help with the change. Hope it's not too confusing! :D _

_--Dagny. _

_**Warnings**__: Language. _

* * *

'**As King of Ferelden**, I command you to sit still and—'

'Oh, you can sod off with your regal _horseshit_ before I stab you with this sword—'

'That's a _kitchen_ carving knife!'

'What does that have to do with the price of eggs? One step closer and I'll—did you not hear what I—I swear by _The Maker_ I'll—ahhh!'

His hands quivered as he restrained her, the metal scales around his wrists rattling melodically around her waist and flailing arms. Under the candlelight, his golden ceremonial armour gave the grey walls of the bedroom a gilded glow, moulded to his substantial build in a manner that befitted his rank and recently anointed position. However, the ornate chainmail's beauty paled in light of its weight, which had been bearing down on his shoulders since his inauguration today morning. Yet despite this notion, it failed to ground him to the floor he shimmied across like an inept dancer—with the woman in his grasp orchestrating the entire comedic scene with her erratic movements. Their first time alone since the Blight had been defeated and the fine porcelain on the table had been smashed, a suit of armour pulled from its stand, and the curtains torn from their banisters—all with their clothes on, much to his infinite annoyance.

His silver lining of the evening: he finally managed to get her to drop the knife.

'You're as stubborn as a Mabari, Dorcas—I'm trying to help you!' Alistair grumbled into her hair, closing his mouth to the wisps that curled out from her two plaited buns as she fidgeted. 'So if you would just wait a moment, I can put you out of your misery!'

'You'll put me out of my misery all right: you'll kill me!'

'It's a dislocated shoulder! Andraste's buck teeth, if the adoring public could see their fearless hero now!'

'Well it hurts.'

'And yet you've been trying to hide your injuries ever since you slew The Archdemon!'

Her movements stilled as she paused for consideration, head cocked curiously to the side. 'Do you think anyone noticed?'

'They'd have to be, well, thicker than me not to have done—and believe me, that's quite a rarity! I half expected you to fall down every set of stairs you were so lopsided—reminded me a bit of Flemmeth now that I think about it.'

'Why, you good for nothing**—**' The cry was a mixture of pain and surprise, a sound that Alistair was prepared for as he curled her bent form towards him, letting her head sag into the crook of his arm as she sobbed out her agony, drowning out the crack of her bone as it slid back into its socket.

'I know, I know, I'm a royal bastard who isn't fit to wipe the dirt from your shoes,' he consoled her with a smile, responding to the muffled curses and calls for blasphemy that reverberated against his breast plate. When she was ready, Dorcas steadied herself in his arms, raising a tear-stained face to eye her betrothed who was relatively smug despite the pain he had put her through. Nonetheless, it was easy for her to mellow under his amber gaze and playful simper—so much so, that she had grown oblivious to the stomp of angry footsteps hurrying against the stone floor outside their room. That was until Wynne slammed open the door, one hand glowing possessively with ancient magics, while a few curious handmaids peaked over her shoulder with impish grins. The grooves on her face were highlighted by the shadows, though her eyes maintained their ethereal glow. She examined the scene with a stern gaze. It was clear from her pursed lips that she had already analysed the situation by the time Ferelden's hero turned her misty eyes to the door. From the way she gathered herself, Alistair feared the worse and promptly raised his arms in defeat.

'I know what you're thinking, Wynne.'

'Do you, now?' she replied in an even tone, arching her fine brows in a way that made the grown man shudder. 'Then that should save me a lot of time when explaining to the Ferelden court why their new King is now a frog.'

'Wynneeee, it's not what it looks like—tell her, Dory!'

Looking sheepishly towards her comrade, Dorcas was quick to hobble over to the mage's side, clasping onto her robes like a child.

'He hurt me, Wynne! Look**,'** she complained, pointing to her newly rearranged shoulder as if the elderly woman could see through the layers of her battle gear. 'Meany Alistair was so rough.'

The look of disdain Wynne threw him should have convinced him to back down, yet it was Dorcas who fuelled his bravery with a demure leer, caught on her lips for the briefest of moments.

'You malicious, _manipulative_ wench**,**' he breathed through a strained smile; half bemused by his trickster companion while the rest of him smouldered with contempt for the mage's half arsed assessment of the circumstance. Honestly, Wynne was practically omnipresent in her judgements, and yet come the theatrics of a dear friend (whom she coddled like one of her own) her logic crumbled under her caring nature.

Alistair tempted conversation once more.

'I promise I'll be gentler with her.' Deciding it was safer to make amends, he held out a hand, hoping that Dorcas would end the charade and accept this declaration of peace. After watching the slow shake of her head, (the quarter smile pulling the corner of her lip) it was clear the young king was stripped of his rights—all of them.

'I think the Princess-consort shall return to her lodgings for the day, Your Majesty.'

'But—'

The couple (whom Wynne decidedly directed towards the door) turned around.

'Hmm—is there some pressing matter with your betrothed that cannot wait until morning?' the woman said apathetically, her telling eyes burrowing so deep into Alistair's subconscious that a blush crawled along his neck.

_Well, there is the pressing matter of my erection,_ he thought (and knew Wynne was well aware of his expectations for the night) but passed over the question with a brusque cough. A wave of his hand signalled his permission to leave.

The sordid minx was well versed in making him wait.

* * *

**When he enters** the room, her face is dull, lifeless—thinks she's staring beyond him.

'My love,' he begins as always, with a term that drags limply on his tongue. It's hard to stomach.

'I said I wasn't accepting visitors.'

She's hunched over the edge of the bed, staring into opening of her window. The fire's almost out now and the auburn of her hair is black in the gloom. Enveloped by covers, he can't tell what she's wearing. He expects the tone (guttural, monotone; she doesn't even to turn to face him when she says it) and straightens to attention.

'I know, but I'm not a visitor—I'm your husband.'

She doesn't reply (doesn't do anything) and it spurs him to continue.

'I want to know,' words, stick to his throat, and he swallows, 'if you're alright.'

'You want to know if I'm still fit to pop out a child, you mean?' she corrects, in a voice that has him reeling with sadness (and contempt). For a moment, Alistair is sure she's going to vomit out more insults—perhaps to him, perhaps to the window she's so fond of—and yet, he sees her shoulders shake with the heave of a sigh. Emotion flits back into her voice—quiet, but _there_. It lifts him—lifts him like hope.

'I-I don't know anymore.'

Taking a few hesitant steps forward, Alistair tries to get a glimpse of her face.

'Can I do something—anything, to make it better?'

She turns to him (and in the dark, he sees her pale lips, puffy eyes, _swollen_) and stares into the bottomless pits of her eyes; cold, dead. He thinks of Morrigan before he can stop himself.

'Yes, yes you can. Zevran—I need him.'

He licks his lips. Disappointment is riddled in every pore.

'Zevran.' His voice barely carries in the stagnant air.

For a moment, he thinks she will reconsider (her lips quivered with uncertainty.) He considers it idly thinking, and turns to leave the room. Zevran is lurking outside the halls (_was always there_, he muses) and leans against the stone wall as he passes. Alistair fails to acknowledge him and quickens his pace until he turns the corner of the ingress, out of sight.

Long after he's reached the cervices of his own room, Alistair's thoughts are still bloody, his fists still clenched.

* * *

'**Why are you** doing this, my lady?' he asks. His handsome face holds the semblance of confusion—but in this light, Dorcas cannot be sure. She's crying silently (it is something Zevran is accustomed to, doesn't query) and holding her stomach, (once converse, now curling towards her spine.)

The queen brings a hand to her face.

'I'm losing him, Zevran,' she moans.

'And you are pushing him away,' he says simply. As she shakes her head, the elf catches the glint of metal on her ear. His face ruptures into an angry scowl as he recognises the design. _'I want you to have this—' _His jaw tightens at the memory, yet he moves to her side when a waxy arm reaches out towards him. He takes it, and holds it close, squeezing the limp fingers he cradles in his. When she presses her face into his flank (the cloth growing damp with her tears) he's holding his breath.

'Stay with me tonight,' she whispers through a sniffle.

Dorcas is sure he hasn't heard her. He's too stiff—unmoving, his hands suddenly as cold and dead as her own. She repeats the request and listens to the rich bells of laughter which rumble in his chest.

'I heard you the first time, Grey Warden,' he tells her, his hands sliding to her face, holding them pensively. When he leans in, she shuts her eyes, purses her lips and waits like a young virgin. They flutter open when he feels the gentle kiss to her forehead (the hands once so certain and strong, now trembling under her jaw.)

'You're not ready to break his heart,' he breathes into her ear, forcing her into tears once more.

'Even when he is, you are still, _not ready_.'


	3. Chapter 3

**WHAT WAS SAID  
**

_**Authors notes**__: EEE! It's been a long time! Sorry—lots of things to do; uni, certificates, travelling. Busy, busy, busy! But, D is back for some more writing! I hope you enjoy this chapter—more angst and another look at what the past was all about. Zevran/Cousland's relationship was the main focus here. _

_-Dagny. _

_**Warnings**__: Language. _

_

* * *

_

It was a selfish notion, but one that played in her mind as Alistair lectured: the first miscarriage had been more tolerable. Wynne pulled the covers over her stomach, tucked a hair behind her ear and smiled. She knew Dorcas wasn't listening and her wizened face was alight with the comforting stare she sought—_needed_.

'Plenty of water,' the mage reminded her, 'and rest—rest is the best remedy for you now.'

With a warm squeeze of her hand (lingering, sounds like leather as it pulls away from hers) Wynne excused herself from their quarters. Alistair barely breathed a word of thanks before continuing:

'Umm, yes—as I was saying, this is no reason to be put off! It could have been from anything; riding, walking, drinking (because of that damned Oghren's special brew; honestly how you don't die-) so we have to be especially careful.' She was staring hard at the wall when he took her shoulder and pressed a kiss dutifully to her cheek. His eyes were tender—as they always were—yet there was something hard and vivid in his gaze; like a metal shard propelled upon the gentle waves of an ocean. It was cold, like a sword.

'The important thing is that you're healthy,' he explained his expression once so sincere with expectation and promise that she hardly recognised the man before her, hell-bent and determined without regard for what they had recently just lost. She feigned a smile, yet his disregard felt like a stone wedged in the pit of her gut. He didn't seem to notice.

'It'll take more than this to keep you down, won't it, love?' Alistair topped up her goblet of water and left for his chambers—whispered how _good_ it will be when she's strong enough to try again with a squeeze of her thigh beneath the covers.

She'd been staring pointedly at the wall for what felt like hours. She knew better. Tightening the muscles in her leg, the bridges of Alistair's fingers lingered in this _wretched _heat under the hem of her gown. Dorcas managed to steal only a few minutes of solitude. In the draught of an open door, the fire flicked.

'He is a lot more confident than when we first met, yes? Less of an oaf—or more: I'm not quite sure yet.'

'Zevran,' she said, her eyes still closed though her brows curled up into her hairline as she traced the syllables of his name on her tongue. 'Alistair is posting you outside my door? Very strange—I didn't think a miscarriage called for an assassin's talents.'

There was bitterness there; etched, laced, enlivened in her slow drawl. Zevran winced. He tried to wheedle through the barrier. The leather flaps of his boots (_'it's a gift,' she tells him, 'Antivan, like you wanted.'_) murmured in a dark susurrus along the uneven panels of the floor. He approached her bed with caution—with respect; cobalt eyes calm behind the skin of his lids. He rationed that she's, _unpredictable_—if only in his mind to maintain a semblance of respect and composure. He stood in front of her. Almost too close. Intimidating; a lean figure over what was no more than a woman—a _playing thing_. At the foot of the bed, he traced the folds of her covers, the junction where the silks tail into warmer cloths along the rise of her stomach. Her hands were manoeuvred over (where he _knows_) the small hole of her bellybutton hides. She noticed him staring. Zevran inhaled sharply through his pursed lips. He raised his eyes.

'It is _company; _you'll come to find you're in need of, my lady. Not protection.'

She snorted, eyes fluttering open. In the light, they shined amber. Zevran had always thought them the colour of fine ale.

'You are right.'

Bemused, he cocked a brow.

'Regarding?'

'Alistair—he's more of an oaf.'

'Ah—'

'If such a thing is possible; but, might I enquire as to what has made her ladyship draw such a conclusion?'

A click echoed through the humid quarter. Head turned, mouth open, her lips moved seamlessly, soundlessly. For a moment—that fluttering _instance_ between realisation and willpower—there was an answer to his question. It died with the breathless sigh that left her; the hands that self-consciously stroked at a non-existent bump.

'I'm being _selfish_,' she warned; a tight voice that was chocked by the implications. With a deigning turn of her head, she watched the fire, gathered her thoughts. Her hostility forked into the recesses of her control once more. It left her tired—unguarded. Zevran licked his lips; his mind dark with hubris (spite, want, lust, anger, betrayal.) Her voice fractured his thoughts. He straightened along his spine.

'I just think that I've changed him—what I _said_ making him _less _of the man—" Dorcas didn't finish. Biting into her lower lip, the elf watched the swell of blood beading underneath the tips of her teeth. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have lectured him—told him we're all out to help ourselves.'

Their gazes found each other when she looked, (naively, he considered) to him. The mask of integrity was gone—her eyes, large, circular portals into the mindset of not a queen; but a woman—a most foul and treacherous creature. Her lips (her sweet little mouth; hot, wet—) parted in a beseeching 'o'. He did nothing but stare; a harsh, cold _glance_ which catalyzed the reformation of her facade—returning her to the Queen that abandoned _him._

'As I said,' she muttered, flatly, 'I am being foolish—selfish.'

'A very feminine trait, your majesty.' The quip was quick, sly—too fast to be dwelt on. It earned him a short glower though she pressed on.

'Yes, well—Alistair has _always _been the one I wanted,' (Zevran's nostrils fluttered with disdain but she continued like a scorned child,) 'So obviously the medicine—the _magic_ has gotten to my head.' Pausing, she raised her gaze (and yet, he felt as if she were looking down at him, snubbing him.) 'So if you're not here for my protection and I don't (breathe) _care _(want, desire, sounded truer to her tone) for your company, what would you do?'

'Something useful, perhaps,' he said through gritted teeth. His hold on his temper was slipping. Still, she persisted.

'Oh, and what would a retired _assassin _consider a _useful _gesture at court when the city is _at peace?_' He despised her tone. He closed his eyes. Clenched his fists. He was infuriated by the italics of her words. The audacity—_how dare she..._

(_'I hate you, madam._')

'Bedding a few lonely _wives_ maybe? You're not the _only _one who isn't being satisfied by their partner.'

There. It was said, told, pronounced, articulated—and it lay in violent red streaks like darkspawn blood on the white of their shields. Blinding—painstakingly _there_. The silence carved his words into memory. He lifted a hand, motioning to apologize. The words never came.

'Do it,' she whispered.

'Dorcas—I—'

'Do it, then,' she echoed, cooler this time, with venom that leached the very warmth from his blood. _This_, was no longer a mere woman. 'Go on—go; find a little whore to play with.'

'Dorcas.' Trying to stimulate rationale through cohesion, he bowed his head, showed his submission despite the grin that tugged on his lips—the _aha! _of his verbal triumph.

She stormed ahead of him with the same, icy scripture.

'What's stopping you, Zevran? Why waste time when you could be out searching for another Rinna to sentence to death.'

A white hand darted to her mouth—Dorcas felt her lips with her fingers and wondered if these words truly came from her. Zevran was motionless. Droplets of perspiration dotted his upper lip. His face was in a scowl. There were the beginnings of an apology, but Zevran was already skulking towards the door. In the end, Dorcas was too proud to say it anyway—say, 'I'm sorry.'

Zevran left court for a year.

Without his company, the seeds of despair festered in her barren womb.


End file.
